Sweet Cheeks
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Belle streaks campus, and Professor Gold is there to see it.


Nothing puts Professor Archimedes Gold in quite so foul a temper as his Friday afternoon 'Physics For Poets' class. The spotty-faced undergraduate dunderheads scowl down at him from their padded lecture hall seats, and he scowls right back, wondering how so fine a career as his could ever have come to this.

Just last year, he gave up a tenured position at the University of Strathclyde—a full-time tenured position, with all the attendant perks and seniority and veneration—to follow his wee boy and fickle ex-wife halfway around the world. And now look at him. Living in a studio flat, sleeping on a flimsy hide-a-bed. Heating up his meals on a damned hot plate. Seeing his boy only on weekends, with Milah's latest loverboy (and his bleached-white, shite-eating grin) doing the bloody hand-off.

All that is to say, any bloke would be getting secretly drunk in his office come Friday evening given similar circumstances.

The real mistake, Professor Gold tells himself, pouring out another hefty glug of bourbon into his stained coffee mug, was logging onto that damnable website, . He takes a long swallow, grimaces as the bottom-shelf liquor burns its way down his throat, then continues scrolling through page after ruthless page.

_**cashman:** THE WORST! Golds accent is so thick noone can understand what hes saying, and he WONT DISCUSSS MAKEUP ASSIGNMENTS. This guy destroyed my GPA in 1 semester. Do yourself a favor and AVOID!_

_**jessiesgirl:** I should have dropped Professor Gold's class when I had the chance. I don't know why he's a teacher because he seems to HATE his students. He doesn't respond to emails and he cancels his office hours at the last minute. If you can learn from someone who talks to the whiteboard instead of his class, more power to you but otherwise STAY AWAY._

_**lacrosse2013:** prof gold sux balllzzzzz! i hate him_

"Well, at least I'm not the one who's responsible for teaching these clowns English Composition," Gold tells himself, but the joke falls flat, even within the echo chamber of his own drunken skull.

Unable to stop himself, he continues scrolling down the list of endless complaints. 'Asshole.' 'Arrogant.' 'hate HATE him &amp; his stupid ties.'

And then, at the bottom of page 3—a flicker of goodness and light:

_**Belle French:** Professor Gold knows his material thoroughly, and his explanations are clear and succinct. He won't waste your time. He teaches not just the calculations, but the history and figures behind the mathematics, which I very much enjoyed. You get out of his courses what you decide to put into them. I would suggest bringing a digital voice recorder to class, as his accent can be a bit thick (though very pleasant to listen to!) Highly recommended._

Huh.

Gold's mental Rolodex spins and spins until it falls open at Belle French's name. He recalls a studious upperclassman with smiling eyes and dimpled pink-apple cheeks, who sat in the front row and took copious notes during his 'Experimental Physics II' course. A most excellent student, in her own low-key way, seemingly content with his old-fashioned lecture format and his strong distaste for group work.

Huh. Well, better not to be a damned fool and stop whilst he's ahead.

Gold polishes off what little liquor is left in his coffee mug, then raises an unsteady hand and makes a jab at his computer monitor's power button. On the third try, the screen flickers and goes dark.

There really isn't much to gather up in his dreary adjunct closet-office. A manila folder filled with freshmen dreck to grade over the weekend. His ancient laptop bag. A tweed coat with elbow patches that was considered quite a la mode back in Scotland, but apparently must be traded in for a zip-up hoodie should he ever want to even attempt to blend in with the other adjuncts here in the States.

Gold's shoulders are hunched as he walks down the main steps of the Math &amp; Sciences building, his eyes firmly fixed on the sidewalk. With a scowl plastered over his face and an unwavering determination to avoid all eye contact, Gold figures he should be safe enough from small talk until he can reach the quiet security of his studio flat.

He doesn't hear the approaching hoofbeat of running shoes.

He does however hear a sudden chorus of girlish shrieks and giggles and squeals—and then they are thundering all around him, laughing and crying out in high-pitched, breathless delight, "It's Gold! Oh my God—I can't believe it! Oh, shit, shit, shit! It's Professor Gold!"

A frantic peal of hilarity erupts, and Gold finds himself awash in a sea of bare buttocks and seesawing breasts and white shoulders and swinging ponytails and muscular, jiggling thighs. It's the girls cross country team, apparently celebrating their recent conference victory with a mad, bare-arsed dash across campus.

And then he feels it: a firm, stinging smack to the left cheek of his arse.

Why, one of these buck-naked she-rascals has hauled off and spankedhim right on the buttocks!

He jerks his head upright, his cheeks (both upper and lower) aflame, and finds himself locking eyes with none other than Belle French. She has fallen a little behind the pack and is jogging backwards, grinning at him broadly, gloriously nude save for a pair of rainbow-striped leg warmers. She winks at him—winks at him—then spins around to catch up with her teammates.

And promptly trips over a tree root.

She sprawls face-first onto the grass, catching herself with two open palms, then rolls over onto her back and begins laughing wildly.

"Oh God!" she shrieks, covering her eyes with both hands and rocking back and forth with manic, shivery glee, "Oh my God, look at them run off—there's no chivalry! Leaving me behind like this…"

Gold approaches Belle French cautiously and shrugs off his déclassé tweed jacket, holding it carefully out to her.

"You're hammered," he says, nonplussed.

Still laughing, she reaches up to take it, then wrinkles her pert nose. "Yeah, well, so are you. What did you do—bathe in it?" She giggles, then waggles a dirty finger at him. "You know, on-campus drinking is expressly forbidden by the college code of conduct."

"Oh, just put the bloody jacket on," he snaps, helping her clumsy spaghetti limbs find the giant armholes.

"Oh—oh, geez! I'm so sorry I spanked your ass," Belle French says, suddenly contrite in the way only drunkards can be, "That was really rude, and I shouldn't have done it. I'm afraid I've been over-served."

She hiccups, then smiles at him foolishly. "You know, I really wanted to give you a hot tamale."

"Excuse me?" Gold says, helping her up to her feet and steering her toward the senior dormitories, "Ah, where do you live, Miss French?"

"It's for some stupid website," she says, waving her hand around in wide, meandering circles as if it's all far too complex to explain, "A 'hot tamale' professor, it means…"

"Hey, Belle!" Someone screams her name from the nearby bushes. "Hey, Belle—come on!" The bushes shake with raucous laughter.

She shrugs back out of his tweed jacket and passes it over to him with a wide smile and a cheeky wink. "I knew they wouldn't leave me behind," she crows, then takes off sprinting across the open grass, her long ponytail swinging and her skin glowing an exquisite, pearly-white in the moonlight.

"Hey!—a 'hot tamale' is a cute professor!" Belle shouts back over her bare shoulder. The nearby bushes erupt in cheers and wild applause. The cross country team beings to chant 'hot tamale, hot tamale, hot tamale, hot tamale!' as Gold walks off into the evening gloom, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets.

He has a secret smile upon his lips, and his cheeks are all a-tingle (both upper and lower.)


End file.
